


mourir de plaisir

by thefudge



Category: Mission: Impossible, Mission: Impossible (Movies), Mission: Impossible Fallout
Genre: Blowjobs, Espionage, Espionage Fucking, Ethan is a Bottom, Fucking Your Enemy, Henry Cavill is a hot thot, Love/Hate, M/M, song: michel sardou - et mourir de plaisir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-20 23:10:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15544236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: Even now, in a dark corner of their minds, they are fucking.  Ethan/August. Takes place during MI: Fallout.





	mourir de plaisir

**Author's Note:**

> Guess what?

“August Walker.” He tries out the name on his tongue. “You’re really bad at picking aliases.”

“Oh, please. Ethan _Hunt_? You sound like an Indiana Jones character.”

Ethan smiles and his eyes crinkle. His vision almost blurs. He’s getting too old for this shit. He needs new contacts. He leans his head against the wall. Walker is standing opposite him, casing the rooftops on the horizon with a pair of binoculars.

They should really turn in and get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be a total fucking hopscotch. Ethan has a half-formulated plan about how to extract Solomon Lane without killing every eye-witness in sight.  He needs to go over it again with … _August_. To say he doesn’t trust his CIA babysitter is putting it mildly. He has gone back and forth on his suspicions in the past half hour alone. Walker could be John Lark, but he could just as well be a double, or a triple agent. He could see that happening. Walker is reckless and ruthless and talented. Just the right combination.

What they don’t tell you in espionage school (which isn’t a thing, by the way) is that the best disguise is your own damn self.  The most useful agent is the one who does not have to pose as anything.

Walker lowers his binoculars.

“Quit staring at me, Hunt. You’re breaking my focus.”

Ethan cocks his head to the side. There’s something else about him too. Something he can’t put his finger on; a quality which lurks beneath the surface, waiting to come out at the right moment.

Walker heaves a sigh and it ripples down to his muscles. He’s not tired. He’s antsy.

“I told you to stop staring.”

Ethan detaches himself from the wall. “We need to go over the plan again. Make sure we have all our bases covered.”

“I’m pretty sure all our bases are exposed. That’s how you operate, Hunt. It’s just risk after risk ...after risk.”

“If you’ve got a better plan, I’d love to hear it.”

Walker shrugs. “People die. It happens. It’s the _job_. Just like Sloane said. You can’t avoid casualties. You just end up causing more damage.”

“Give me damage. I can handle damage,” Ethan argues, like he's attached to the word. Damaged things become stronger, in time.

“I’m sure you can,” Walker responds and his tone is almost playful, ironic even. Is that what’s lying underneath? A sense of humor?

Ethan rubs the bridge of his nose.

He should go to his room and leave the strategy talk for tomorrow at dawn. He’s always better on his feet when he’s had his meager four hours of sleep.

He’s just about to head out the door when Walker’s voice stops him in his tracks.

“You don’t fool me, though.”

“Meaning?”

Walker’s got a cocky smirk on his lips. “I know you’ve killed before. You’ve probably killed more people than I have. You’re not playing this sleight of hand because you want to save _lives_. You’re doing it because you enjoy the thrill of the chase, the double bluff. Breaking the rules. Face it, you’re an adrenaline junkie. You’ll do anything for a hit.”

Ethan turns his head to the side. He’s almost tempted to nod. “You think this is my vacation.”

“Well...when in Paris,” Walker teases, his eyes both soft and steeled.

They contemplate each other in silence. But it does not last. The sober quiet of the room is spoiled by the trills of a French medley drifting up from a brasserie on the street.

… _Et mourir de plaisir….et mourir de plaisir_ … the voices sing to a hypnotizing rhythm.

Dying of pleasure.

The universe is always in on the joke, Ethan thinks, stepping away from the door.

He’s walking towards Walker.  

_…._ _Poser les mains sur un visage_ _, vouloir et ne pas oser…._ the voices sing. His French is passable but out of practice.

_Putting your hands on a face… wanting but not daring…._ Is that right?

He almost wants to ask the man in front of him. He has a feeling his French is better.

“You should watch your tone,” Ethan says amiably, eyes crinkled. “You owe me one. I saved your life up there.”

Walker is not discomfited. He shoves his hands in his pockets and swings his hips forward. “I know. You gave me your oxygen. Generous of you, I might add.”  

He lifts one hand from his pocket and lets it hover next to Ethan’s ear. He could choke him. Clock him unconscious. Could do a lot of things in the span of seconds.  

“I know how you did it. You unfastened the tube from your neck…” he says and his fingers graze Ethan’s jaw like a hot knife, "…and you fastened it to my neck. I felt it. I don’t think I thanked you for it.”

Ethan swallows hard. “You didn’t.”

Walker lowers his hand abruptly and Ethan experiences a shameful pang of disappointment. Before he can distance himself, he feels a tug on his belt. Walker is undoing it slowly, methodically. Like he’s done this before.

Which – _of course_ he has.

Maybe the biggest adrenaline rush isn’t breaking orders or playing double bluffs.

Maybe it’s fucking the double agent who you are certain will betray you.  

 

 

It’s a testament to August Walker’ skills that he manages to push Ethan on the bed in under five seconds. Yet the fall comes slow. Walker’s got a hold on him with hands and mouth. He tugs at Ethan’s shirt lightly, letting his fingers skim the exposed belly, enjoying the hardness of the muscle underneath, following the carved hollows of his hips with his thumb.   

Ethan almost flinches. He expected an aggressive back and forth, a tearing of clothes, a contest of wills. But August is almost boyish, almost gentle.

Isn’t that much worse?

Son of a bitch, _of course_ it is.

August presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to Ethan’s jaw, tongue licking and drawing back like a shy animal.

His mouth on his mouth, teeth grazing the lower lip, withdrawing, not letting him taste. _Fuck_.

He’s not gonna last long like this.

Walker guides Ethan’s hands to his trousers. The hardness there makes him shudder. Yet everything is unwinding with perfect, intoxicating equanimity.

Ethan wonders idly, did Walker launch himself out of the plane on purpose? Did he pretend a rashness he does not really possess?

August breathes hotly in his ear. He might be a mind-reader because in the next moment he says,

“I’m gonna take my time fucking you, Hunt. I hope you don’t mind. Nothing personal...”

Ethan nods, releasing Walker’s cock from his pants, running his fingers over it in the same slow tempo.

“…it’s just the job,” he finishes for him.

“That’s right.” Walker grins and kisses him, this time making him fall back with the force of a freight train.

 

 

His scalp is burning. His eyes water. Vision blurred. He needs new contacts. Or maybe a pair of stolid, old-man glasses.

Walker tugs hard on his hair, never releasing, never allowing him to fill his lungs with air.

Ethan accepts the challenge, keeps the pace.

He can feel his age and the whole gamut of his exhausted career exposed to Walker’s gaze and touch and taste. The force of it reels him in and out…in and out…begging, but silent, wanting but not daring.

Their hips collide frantically in time with the song drifting from the brasserie.

_Et tomber jusqu'à'? L'agonie_

_Souffrir encore plus et se rendre_

_Dans un cri._

Surrender in a scream.

No, he can’t do that. He won’t.

August kisses his sweat-stained back. His hand pumps his cock, brushing his thumb over the tip, spreading the pre-cum over his shaft.

“I know you want to come,” he whispers against his back.

Ethan screws his eyes shut and bites down on his fist.

“I’m right behind you,” August says in that boyish, unreliable way he says most things. It’s a double-entendre, a key, a cipher. It’s everything.

It makes Ethan’s mind go blank.

They both scream in surrender.

 

 

Later, they smoke together on the balcony, elbows leaning over the iron-wrought railing. The city lights blink ephemeral in the background. Paris is only beautiful when you’re not paying attention.

“This doesn’t change anything. Doesn’t change tomorrow,” Ethan says, taking a drag.

August smiles, watching the passers-by rush towards some nocturnal delight. “I get it. An addict is never truly satisfied. You always need another hit.”

“You gonna be my life-coach from now on?”

Walker laughs and in the dark his teeth are the only bright thing. “Nothing and no one can help you now, Ethan Hunt.”

And isn’t this as good as a confession?

Yes, it is.

Doesn’t he now have all the information he needs to conclude that August Walker is John Lark, member of the Apostles, and will throw him to the dogs at his earliest convenience?

Yes, he does.

And yet explaining why, when they go back in the room, he pushes Walker against the wall, kneels down and takes his cock in his mouth would take too long.

They only have tonight.

 

 

( _Like that. Ethan._

He says it only once, chokes on the syllables, as Ethan swallows every last drop)

 

 

Running keeps his anger stoked. Running keeps him going. He’s not running towards, he’s running through. He rams through doors and windows, brick and glass and metal.

He charges and jumps and falls and breaks bones. But he launches himself again.

He follows John Lark like a ghost.

When the elevator is about to ascend, he clings to the wire mesh and is wrenched up, muscles screaming for release. This is not a new feeling.

Walker looks down at him through the wire mesh. No compunction, no surprise.

The vantage point is certainly inviting. Even now, in a dark corner of their minds, they are fucking.  

“I’m afraid I can’t let you come with me,” Walker says, sucking on his teeth. “You’d only be in the way.”

“You won’t shoot me,” Ethan says, even as the gun is aimed at his forehead. “You still need me to lead you to the plutonium.”  

“Lane has plans for you,” Walker remarks petulantly. “Everyone wants to settle scores with you.”

“And you?” Ethan asks, sweat pouring into his eyes. His vision was never clear around him anyway.

Walker’s eyes soften. “You were a good fuck, Hunt. Probably the best I ever had. You know why?”

Ethan licks his lips. His fingers are numb. He can’t feel his legs. He has to let go. But he can’t.

“Because you’re willing to stay suspended like that forever.”

And it’s true. The ascension is ripping him in half but Ethan holds onto the elevator. He will never give up. The thrill, the hit, the adrenaline, whatever you want to call it – it’s a euphemism. What he really wants to do is die each time.

_Et mourir de plaisir…_

He follows Walker on the rooftop, even though he knows it’s impossible.

He watches him jump into the helicopter. He watches him disappear on the horizon.

No matter. He’ll follow. He’ll go to the edge and tip over it, if he has to.

Walker bites his thumb. He looks down at the small figure on the rooftop, even as it recedes into a speck.

He'll see him again. They'll breathe and sweat together. 

In a secret place in their minds, they’re still fucking. They’re always fucking.

 

**Author's Note:**

> the full translation of the song lyrics: "And falling until...? The agony/To suffer even more and to surrender/ In a scream".   
> Also you should definitely listen to that song, cuz hnnn.


End file.
